


I'm Not Sure What This Is

by ClVgHz



Category: ----------
Genre: I'm Going To Hell For This, Just a draft bc I'm bored, M/M, fresh outta my head, that i know for sure, this doesn't even make sense, thought it'd be a good idea to write some stuff down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5393108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClVgHz/pseuds/ClVgHz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this in less than 15 mins. so the title pretty much says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Sure What This Is

He turns around and notices me. Almost gasps but restrains himself. He’s staring at me and it takes him a few seconds to recognize me.  
-What’s the matter? I ask  
-Nothing. He says, wiping his neck and handing me the towel. He tries to act normal.  
I take it. I don’t usually do these kind of things, but it can’t be helped. Not under these circumstances. He smells of fear. I can smell it from where I’m standing, only a few feet away. It’s on the towel, too. It may be unseemly, like a kid sniffing a pair of college girl panties. But I do that with this small white towel I never want to let go of. I’m surprised at my behavior. Hope he doesn’t notice how much I enjoy this arousing scent. Like a junkie.  
He’s got no idea what I’m gonna do to him. Not a clue. Good.  
He smiles at me, that beautiful, innocent smile who’d make anyone want to smile back or hug and kiss him. But not me. My brain doesn’t work that way. No. I wanna strangle him. Make his eyes water. Make him cry, make him beg. Make him refuse and hate me, hate himself for getting hard. Hard as I am right now just from thinking about it. Thinking about all I’m about to do to him.  
The fact that he’s clueless makes it even more exciting.  
-Pass me that lotion please.  
I do so, watch him tidy up. He’s nervous and unsettled. Uncomfortable and perhaps even creeped out. Maybe that’s the subtle hint of fear I sense. It’s weird but he decides to make nothing of it, he probably thinks there’s no reason to be freaked out. He believes he’s making it all up, maybe it’s not that strange, so he allows me to watch him nonetheless. How cute.  
He’s got a towel around his waist but that’s it. His upper body’s completely naked. White, tender skin. Shinny from sweat. I hold back a moan at the thought of covering that gorgeous skin with bruises. The need to mark him. To make him my own for no one to see but him. I want him to wear long sleeved shirts to cover them up. Because he’s ashamed. Also because he doesn’t want anyone to see. Because it’s none of their business, and because he’s afraid they might want to help him; they might call the police. Of course, he’s not afraid of the cops. He’s afraid because he knows no one can help him, because he knows that I will only beat him up more should anyone try anything stupid and I find out. And because he knows it can’t be stopped. I can’t be stopped. He knows me well enough to know I’ll kill anyone who tries to interrupt the process. He’s mine and those bruises show that much. Pink, purple, green, black bruises. Faint or not, they’re all of my own making.  
He turns around to his locker to do who knows what. Shit. His back would be a piece of art if I filled it with bright red burns and scratches. And god, he smells so good; the scent of his shampoo and aftershave entangles with the steam from the showers and the locker room is filled with a smell that’s purely his. Now that I come to think of it, I don’t smell of fear anymore. He’s regained his confidence. That scent left the room all too quickly, just a couple of minutes after I took him by surprise. But boy, if you radiate fear so easily then I’m in for a treat. But not just yet; I want to watch you a bit longer…  
It’d be mesmerizing. To see him flinch when he stands up or when he puts his jacket on; or when he reaches for something a bit too far away for his bruised body not to hurt, a bit too far away for him not to whimper in pain. A pain which reminds him of how I’ve corrupted his body. How I’ve reduced him to nothing more than my puppet, my rag doll. A broken fuck toy, disheveled and hopeless. Torn to pieces and built from scratch by no one but me.  
I’d love to see him cry when he’s alone; when he’s stopped having to pretend he’s not in pain or corrupted. He’d look so pretty sitting there hopeless, rocking back and forth and hyperventilating. Remembering and hating himself for getting hard when I tease him, when I fuck him raw. He hates how he moans and comes every time, unable to refrain. He doesn’t enjoy it, his body reacts despite himself as he cries and his lips let out a string of “no”s along with unintelligible curses and cries of pain and pleasure. All of that floods his mind as he brings up his hands to ruffle his hair and wipe his tears.  
In my mind he also cries every time he sees my hungry eyes. He loathes it when I stare at him like that. Because he knows what follows. He knows I’m gonna fuck him senseless until his eyes roll to the back of his head. And he knows he can’t escape it. He never will.  
I retreat a bit, pretend I’m looking around the locker room with not much interest on anything in particular. I pace casually through the numbered lockers as he gets dressed; I'm planning my every move, planning what I am to do later with my beautiful prey. I’m unspeakably aroused, but he mustn’t see that now. Just a few more minutes and it’ll all come out to light.  
The fact that it’s all illegal and perilous makes it all the more exciting; but what really adds a touch of thrill to it is, perhaps, the venue. I got a huge bodega to myself: a whole block, large and wide, three stories tall. A proper world of fun. Walls, soundproof; location, isolated; and the time, well, I got half the night and the early hours of day. The store closes up at nine pm and the first employee arrives at eight in the morning on weekdays.  
That gives me some time to indulge in a couple of debauched activities. But it ain’t enough if you ask me. It’d be fantastic if I could keep him for days. Screaming and crying until his throat’s sore and his face swollen. I sadly can’t afford to do that; I don’t own the place. I will only be able to do a couple of my tricks on the boy, but not all of them. It pains me to accept that I won’t have the time to break him, to extinguish that fire and light one anew with my own modifications. To beat and scare out the fight left in him, and turn him into a willing plaything. My personal and twisted harlot if you will, with all the fun that implies. To have the opportunity for an assiduous process would be a beauty, I know, but alas! Occupational hazards I guess.  
-So, what are you doing here?  
I snap out of it not-too-subtly enough, my reaction a bit slow.  
-I, ah I have to… I’m meeting up some friends here, we’re finishing up a project due Monday.  
He seems a bit thrown off by my far-from-agile response and by how distant I am when in the company of others. Never mind that.  
-Oh. He says as he shuts his locker door. –What’s it about?  
Now.  
-Well it’s uhm…  
I have to be quick. I grab my handkerchief soaked with chloroform and put him over his mouth and nose. It´s not that easy because he’s strong and taller than me, but the struggle doesn’t last much and his body gives out entirely after only a few seconds. He’s mine now. Tonight’s gonna be a long night for him.


End file.
